Hunting Darius

I was turning out the lights and headed for bed just in my sleeping shorts at nearly 3:00 a.m. when the doorbell rang. I opened the door of my New Orleans Garden District Victorian house to two black men. The scrawny, nearly bent-over one I knew: Trayvon, who played piano--and damn well too--at various jazz and bar venues in the French Quarter. The other man, almost ebony black, towering, young, a mass of muscle, and gorgeous, I'd never seen before. I would have remembered if I had.

"Tray said he lived here," the hunk said rather hesitantly in a deep baritone voice. He was carrying a duffel bag on one shoulder, a saxophone case on the other, and was holding Trayvon up, doing it all with no difficulty.

"He does. Not right here, though. He lives in the cottage in the garden behind the house. You can help him around to there," I said.

"Thanks, Mon," the gorgeous hunk said, and, supporting a grinning and obviously drunk-as-a-skunk Trayvon, he moved off the porch and took the flagstone pathway around the side of the house to the back.

Or you could come inside and entertain me, I mumbled to myself when they were gone. I couldn't resist a hunk of a black man. I went to the back of the house, in the dark, to check on whether they got to Trayvon's cottage safely. I turned on the floodlights back there to ease their passage. Trayvon wasn't a servant. He'd come with the house I'd inherited from my uncle. Uncle James, known as Jimmy the Man here, had owned a couple of nightclubs in the French Quarter. Trayvon, now close to hitting forty but seeming more sixty when he was drunk, had played piano for my uncle on demand as needed and, in return, had been permitted to stay in the cottage. When my uncle died, Trayvon hadn't made any move to depart as well. I had no need for the cottage and enjoyed Trayvon's company from time to time, so he still was here.

The big black hunk, I knew nothing about. But, having seen the saxophone case hanging off his shoulder, I had an idea about him. Trayvon was good about bringing home stray musicians--especially ones who would top him. Trayvon was also good about getting drunk in the process of recruiting a guy to top him. He wouldn't like anything better than for this guy who'd dragged him home to stay the night and hump him while Tray was half out of it.

I stood at the kitchen window, watching the men reach the cottage and the living room and front porch lights come on there. The duffel bag went into the living room and Trayvon dropped into a chair on the front porch. The hunk went inside and the cottage's kitchen lights went on. After a few minutes, the hunk came out with two cans of beer. It was a hot night, and he'd stripped down to his briefs, and he was a gorgeous, muscular, six-and-a-half-foot tall ebony god.

The ebony god handed Trayvon a beer, but he also dipped his face down to Trayvon's and they must have kissed. Trayvon wasn't completely out of it. He put one arm around the hunk's waist, pulling him in, fished a massive cock out of the man's briefs, and took the shaft into his mouth, giving the man head.

That heated me up, my hand went down under the waistband of my sleeping shorts, and I stroked myself. I hadn't had any in a while and was keyed up by the sheer sexuality of the black giant.

After a few minutes, the hunk picked Trayvon up and turned him in the chair so that he was in the chair on his knees with his arms dangling off the back. His trousers and briefs were puddled on the deck next to the chair. The hunk's briefs landed on top of those and, naked, with plump and firm butt cheeks that tightened and relaxed in a steady cadence, he saddled up behind Trayvon and fucked him. It wasn't long before the hunk pulled Trayvon out of the chair, carried him into the cottage, and I saw around at the side of the cottage that lights had come on in Trayvon's bedroom behind the living room.

My eyes had focused on the movement of those muscular glutes as the unnamed hunk fucked Trayvon, and, before he carried Trayvon into the house, I'd released my load into the kitchen sink.

It wasn't more than ten minutes later that the hunk came back out of the house, slipped his briefs back on, took the saxophone out of the case, and sat in the chair he'd fucked Trayvon in and began to play a mournful tune, "Slow Blues." He did know how to play the saxophone.

I didn't hesitate. I pulled two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels out the cupboards and went out into the garden through the kitchen door and to the front porch of the cottage. He didn't seem all that surprised to see me, and smiled as I poured him a glass of bourbon and handed it to him.

"You blow a mean saxophone," I said, not mentioning that it was 3:30 in the morning in a residential neighborhood. If the neighbors didn't appreciate good music, fuck 'em. He'd picked a smooth, quiet tune.

"Thanks, Mon," he said, swigging on the bourbon I'd given him. "I saw you watchin' us through your window," he said, pinning that down.

"Yeah, I did."

"But you didn't call the cops or anything."

"No, I didn't. I know how it is with Trayvon. Is he all right?" I asked.

"He zonked out on me. I don't keep doin' a guy who's totally out of it. What's he to you--he out here and you in the house? You alone in that big house?"

"Yes, I'm alone in the house," I answered, with a low laugh. "I inherited it. Inherited Trayvon too. He was here, in the cottage, when I got here. He stayed. Nothing between us. He worked for my uncle--who left me the house."

"And you were fine sticking with watching me fuck him?"

"Yeah, I'm fine with that," I said.

"You both bottoms--both you and Tray?"

"Why do you ask?" I said, surprised.

"He told me that the guy living in the house took cock."

"Yes, we're both bottoms," I admitted.

"You got some black in you, do you? I think I see something."

"Yes, I guess I do. I haven't thought much about it. My uncle--my mother's brother--was a quadroon--one quarter black. My mother was too. That's not unusual here in New Orleans. I guess that makes me an octoroon. My father was white. That's even more common in New Orleans. Why do you ask?"

"I don't do whites."

"Good to know," I said. "My name is Hendrix--Henny for short." I probably should have told him then what I did for a living here--that I booked musicians for gigs in the French Quarter. I worked. The house was a nice one in a rich neighborhood, but I had inherited it and I wasn't independently wealthy or anything. I worked for my money. It may have saved some time and effort if I had told I him I worked with musicians, but I didn't. I was reeling a bit from his self-confidence and directness.

"I'm Darius," he said, fiddling around with his sax.

"How do you know Trayvon, Darius?" I asked. "And are you just passing through?"

"He was playing the piano at the bar I was working tonight. He's good."

"Yes, he is."

"But he can't hold his liquor. He's left me with blue balls. We got a start but he couldn't stay awake. I don't fuck no guy who's zonked out."

"You've got blue balls and that's why you asked if I took cock?"

"Something like that. I'm not asking out of the blue, I don't think. Tray said the guy living in the house here liked taking cock. And, yes, I'm just passing through. I came from Jacksonville. On my way to St. Louis. Got family there. Picked up a gig here in the French Quarter to get me by and back on the road. I'm not looking for a relationship. Just a quick lay. That's what Trayvon offered--a free bed for the night for a quick lay."

"Yes, well," I said. "Trayvon does have trouble with liquor." I couldn't think of anything else to say at this delicate stage of the dance. I ached for him. He was one sexy god of a man.

"I need to piss," Darius said. He stood and went into the house. I used his absence to leave and go back into the house.

I left the kitchen door open and both the outside light and the lights in the kitchen on, and I went up to my bedroom, which overlooked the garden, with a balcony. I took a shower and cleaned myself up and out, brushed my teeth, and, naked, went out onto the balcony. Darius had returned to the front porch at the cottage and was playing a slow, mournful "Summertime" on the saxophone. I'd turned the lights on in my bedroom, and he looked up and saw me, naked, there on the balcony. We held like that for several minutes, him knowing I knew he was looking at me, naked, on the bedroom balcony and not retreating. Both of us know what I was offering.

He came into the house, found one of the staircases to the second floor, and saddled in behind me on the balcony. I stretched my arms out, gripping the balcony rail, and jutted my butt out. Darius went down on his knees behind me, pushing his face into the crevice between my buttchecks. A beefy hand came around and gripped and stroked my cock as he ate me out, opening me up. I moaned, and whispered, "Yes, yes, yes."

He rose up over me, nearly a foot taller than I was, certainly much more bulky and muscular. He would have no trouble controlling me--assuming I was going to resist anything, which I wasn't going to. I gasped and shuddered as he put his huge erection in position; penetrated, grasping my wrists in place as he forced himself up inside me; and fucked me. His lips went to the hollow of my neck and I arched my head back and groaned as he plowed me deep.

After a while, he withdrew, gathered me up, and carried me into the bedroom and to the bed. He did as he wished with me, and I docilely let him. He lay on his back on the bed, with me on top of him, looking at the ceiling. His calves laced around my legs, spreading and raising them, and his beefy arms laced under my pits, putting me into a full Nelson, raising and immobilizing my arms. His jet-black cock was plenty thick and long enough to possess and fill my ass, and I was fully his captive as he held me close, raised and lowered my willing, shimmering body on his plowing monster shaft, and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me in the position of the crab, filling me with his hot cum.

The next morning he was gone. I went down to Trayvon's cottage, finding him bleary eyed, holding his head in one hand, and holding one of the glasses I'd left there from the previous evening. He'd taken more than one shot from the bottle of Jack Daniels I'd also left.

He didn't ask me about the two glasses or the bottle of bourbon. He did ask me about Darius. "I thought I brought a black giant home last night, but I can't remember much of what happened."

"That's a sign of the great things you miss when you're drunk," I said. For my part, I could remember every glorious minute and stroke of Darius the previous night. And I already missed Darius. One lay and good-bye may be enough for him, but I didn't think it was enough for me.

But, other than his name, Darius, and that he was an ebony god, I knew nothing about him. Trayvon didn't know any more about him than I did--we both knew he blew a mean saxophone--so there wasn't much more that I could do to hook up with him again other than go into the French Quarter and ask if anyone knew him.

Apparently Darius hadn't been in New Orleans long enough for anyone to know much about him. That was a pity, as his talent with the saxophone made New Orleans a natural home for him. And I had this large old Victorian home in the Garden District, with plenty of room in my bed and a fetish for big black bulls.

* * * *

I wasn't only straddling Ed Trout's hips in the fifth-floor Pear Tree Inn hotel room in St. Louis and riding his cock because it helped me book musicians at his Regina's and Eddie's jazz clubs in New Orleans' French Quarter. I really enjoyed having sex with Ed, who hadn't hit fifty yet, was good looking, spent considerable time in the gym, knew how to fuck, and gave me release. We weren't a couple, but we were comfortable with each other and were long past needing seduction or preparation to fall into bed together.

We were in St. Louis looking for musical talent. He was looking for it for his clubs, with my help. I was looking for talent on behalf of other clubs in the New Orleans area as well. New Orleans soaked up more performing musicians than any market in the United States other than the Nashville area. I was making the trip anyway, but when Ed heard I was traveling, he decided to come along. We didn't have as much opportunity to hump each other in New Orleans as we did on the road. He had a large family in Louisianna, including a suspicious and surveilling wife. She didn't live with Ed anymore, but she was ever vigilant for means to increase his financial support for her.

We had picked the Pear Tree Inn because it was near the Washington Avenue strip of jazz clubs. I'd heard there was a fantastic saxophonist playing at the Jazz St. Louis club and we decided to work our way up to that club that night. We arrived too early for the club openings--purposely so, I thought, on Ed's part. He'd been the one to get the plane tickets. There wasn't much else to do before the clubs opened except kick around the hotel rooms. We had connecting rooms.

Ed had a good idea of what we could do, though. We were periodic lovers, but not in any sort of dedicated relationship sense. We were casual about it, not possessive with each other. We occasionally participated in threesomes and more and didn't resent anything either of us did with others. For us, sex was a release, like going to the gym.

"You can use the shower first," he said, but once I'd gotten into the shower in the bath off my room, Ed was there, naked, and climbing into the shower as well. He put me on my knees, sucking him off, and then, after we'd dried off, he bent me over the foot of the bed in my room and ate my ass out. It was my idea to put him on his back and straddle his hips, pointed toward his feet and grasping his knees as I rose and descended on his cock.

Ed had a very nice cock and I hadn't had any for a couple of weeks, so we managed to fill in the time before we needed to catch a steak and our first live jazz sets at The Marquee restaurant on Locust. There was a trumpeter there Ed took a fancy to and gave his card to, and then it was off to open the clubs on Washington Avenue.

I suppose that the possibility that Darius was the great talent playing saxophone at the Jazz St. Louis club had been at the back of my mind since I'd heard about it and planned the recruitment trip to Missouri. I did remember that St. Louis was where he'd said he was headed after his one night with me in New Orleans. It was still a happy surprise when, at the last stop Ed Trout and I made on our St. Louis talent-scouting club hop was at the Jazz St. Louis and Darius was there, on the platform, playing "Summertime" in a saxophone solo.

The late-night crowd, which knew its smooth jazz, was mesmerized. So were Ed and I.

"I've got to have him," Ed whispered to me.

"No such luck. He's a top," I whispered back.

Ed stifled a laugh so as not to disturb the band, which was moving into its closing number. "You know that because--"

"Yes," I answered.

He sniggered. "I mean for one of my clubs."

"Not even that," I answered. "He's going to be all mine, including club assignments."

Ed raised an eyebrow. "So, this is the black bull god you've mentioned as your best fuck? You have history with this man?"

"Not enough history," I answered.

Darius had seen me in the audience while he was playing his solo, and, from that moment, our eyes had remained locked and the smile on his face told me that things were just fine between us and there was a future for us to whatever extent each of us was comfortable establishing one. I didn't need him as a one and only. But I did need what he had to give and I did want to get it from him.

Ed caught the drift of the connection Darius and I had established as well as my responses to what he'd said about wanting him for his club.

"If I put you to the top of the list for his gigs in New Orleans--if I can get him--will you find someplace else to be when the band leaves the stage and not resent that I'm not here when you get back--or at the hotel tonight?"

"Hey, I'm all about getting talent signed for my clubs," Ed said, with a smile. "Go for it. If he wasn't a top, you know what I'd be doing."

And then he was gone, needing to find a men's room, he said, and Darius, all smiles, was coming off the platform and, as the other band members walked off to the side, he walked directly to our table--and to me.

We didn't say much to each other right then. I had an instantaneous need for him and it seemed the same for him in the moment. He didn't even ask me what I was doing there. His small attic apartment, in an old house his brother owned and had subdivided into rental units, luckily was just a couple of blocks over from the club. We barely made it there before we were standing in the center of his living area, rocking against each other, pulling on each other's clothes, and preparing each other for sex.

We didn't make it to the bed--in an alcove off the living room--initially. Big black bruiser that he was, he just crouched down a bit, moving his center of gravity behind him to balance my body, which he put on his cock in front of him, facing away, his hands gripping under my thighs and spreading my legs. Skewered on his deep-thrusting cock, I arched my back, threw my arms up to clench my fists behind his neck, and gave myself to him fully as he raised my smaller body on and off his cock.

For the finish, he carried me over to his bed--he manipulated me like I was a rag doll; from the beginning he was going to have whatever he wanted--set me down on my back at the foot of the bed, grasped my ankles and raised and spread my legs, mounted and penetrated me, and fucked the stuffing out of me.

It was only later, as we lay stretched out beside each other in the bed, our hands and lips exploring each other that he showed interest in anything but fucking me.

"What are you doing in St. Louis?" he asked.

"Coming for you, I think, although I didn't fully realize it at the time."

"And now that you've come for me and I've come for you...?" he asked with a smile.

"I didn't tell you in New Orleans. I'm a talent finder for jazz clubs. I inherited that from my uncle as well. I heard of this tremendous saxophonist in St. Louis, and I had to come to try to recruit him. I only half knew it was you?"

"I'm hurt that you weren't fully aware it was me. And now that you've found me? I have a good gig here at Jazz St. Louis."

"Have you heard of Regina's or Eddie's, French Quarter jazz clubs in New Orleans?"

"Yep. Top of the heap. I'd die to play there."

"The owner's here in town. He's already heard you."

"The other guy who was at the table with you tonight? The guy who left before I came off the stage?"

"Yes. Ed Trout. He owns both clubs. I can get you into his clubs and into other venues too."

"I have free housing here?"

"You mean this little dump?"

"Yep. My brother owns the house. I take the gripes of the other tenants and pick up their rent checks and I get this palace for free."

"That's not really for free. You could have free housing in New Orleans."

"I don't want to live in your house with you. I don't want anything to be that close with a guy."

"I agree. Trayvon isn't living in the cottage anymore. He went to Nashville for more fame and fortune than he was getting in New Orleans. The place is empty and available."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Anything else you want, I'll get it for you," I said.

"Right now I want you again."

"Coming right up, sir," I said, with a grin, rising up, swinging a leg over his thighs, putting him in position, and beginning to show him my cowboy riding technique.